Jede Nacht ist fur mich ein Song. Jeder Augenblick ist fur mich ein Song. Aber diesmal ist alles anders. Und gleichzeitig spure ich, dass das Leben von uns nicht nur in einem einzigen Song gelebt wird. Wir leben von Lied zu Lied, von Augenblick zu Augenblick, von Akkord zu Akkord. Das Leben ist mehr als der Soundtrack einer Nacht. Es ist ein unendlicher Soundtrack.
Who else would find me at just this moment? First he found me drunk, now he found me cleaning up poo from a barking pony who was about to go into attack mode.
Hope and belief. I'd always wanted hope, but never believed that I could have such an adventure on my own. That I could own it. And love it. But it happened.
I mean, they're only the best punk band out there right now, named for the fucking apathy of a xenophobic fucking nation oblivious to the fucking terror its leaders wreak on the rest of the world because they're too busy worrying if their cat might be stuck up a tree or something.
What else could I be? If I were a mono-thinker, I probably wouldn't be an insomniac. How is a poly-thinker supposed to fall asleep, and more importantly, stay asleep, when thoughts just won't stop darting! darting! darting! through my head?
I thought about the bigger picture of my life, and about the people--and particularly the guys--I would encounter during my lifetime. How would I ever know when that moment was right, when expectation met anticipation and formed ... connection?
Lou's such an old punk he was around when the Ramones were junkie hustlers first and musicians second, when punk meant something other than a mass-marketing concept designed to help the bridge-and-tunnel crowd feel cool.
I'm not that girl who randomly meets a guy one night and has her life change. I wear cords and flannel shirts. I don't have the killer body like Tris or Caroline. Sometimes I don't wash my hair for three days and sometimes I don't floss.
One part of Judaism called tikkum olam. It says that the world has been broken into pieces. All this chaos, all this discord. And our job - everyone's job - is to try to put the pieces back together. To make things whole again ... Maybe we're the pieces. Maybe what we're supposed to do is come together. That's how we stop the breaking.
Why do adults think every girl who isn't some overachieving nitwit needs to be reassured about her intelligence? Folks, my self-esteem is just fine, thanks. I may not be school smart, and I may do extremely stupid things sometimes, but I know I'm smart. And I'd give me some serious Vegas odds to kick the ass of Sarah Scholar at life-skills moral combat any day.
These humans--they are cruel monsters. Liars. Deceitful. For the first time, I want to hurt them the way they hurt me. This is so unfair. My body feels numb, my energy spent, my mind deceived and angry.
Cinderella was such a dork. She left behind her glass slipper at the ball and then went right back to her stemonster's house. It seems to me she sho8ld have worn the glass slipper always, to make herself easier to find. I always hoped that after the prince found Cinderella and they rode away in their magnificant carriage, after a few miles she turned to him and said, "Could you drop me off down the road please? Now that I've finally escaped..
I mean, like most guys, you carry around this girl in your head, who is exactly who you want her to be. The person you think you will love the most. And every girl you are with gets measured against this girl in your head. So this girl with the red notebook - it makes sense. If you never met her, she never has to get measured. She can be the girl in your head.
The sound of the ocean breaking our silence was like chocolate syrup poured into a glass of milk, dispersing into awkward dark clumps while waiting to be stirred.
Wow. I feel like in this riot of people, I have been kicked in the stomach, but by the giddy police. Forget about the need for oxygen. My mouth wants to go back to the place it just left.
When the rain falls you just let it fall and you grin like a madman and you dance with it, because if you can make yourself happy in the rain then you're doing pretty alright in life.
She murmured, in that particular Nancy way of hers that grates most when my inner bitch is aching to be let loose, 'Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.' My eyes popped open to see her lemon face standing over me. 'SOMEONE,' I hissed, 'HASN'T EVEN WOKEN UP YET. GOD, WHAT IS YOUR ANEURYSM? CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?
Fuck Tris. I would give body parts to have a guy write something like that for me. My kidney? Oh, both of them? Here, Nick, they're yours--just write more for me. I'll give you a start: boy in punk club asks strange girl to be his girlfriend for five minutes, girl kisses boy, boy kisses back, boy then meets girl--what did you notice about this girl? Nick, let's hear some lyrics. Please? Ready. Set. Go.
Goodwill to all.' I know it's techinically 'goodwill to all men,' but in my mind, I drop the 'men' because that feels segregationist/elitist/sexist/generally bad ist. Goodwill shouldn't be just for men. It should also apply to women and children, and all animals, even the yucky ones like subway rats. I'd even extend the goodwill not just to living creatures but to the dearly departed, and if we include them, we might as well include the und..
I mean, what if love isn't a yes-or-no question? It's not either you're in love or you're not. I mean, aren't these different levels? And maybe these things, like words and expectations and whatever, don't go on top of the love. Maybe it's like a map, and they have all their own place, and when you see it from the sky - whoa.
So what do you have to confess now?" I don't know why I'm saying any of this, except that it's the truth. "I'm confessing that I don't know if I'm ready for this." "What is 'this'?" Being open. Being hurt. Liking. Not being liked. Seeing the flicker on. Seeing the flicker off. Leaping. Falling. Crashing."